The tent was cool and dark as she parted the fabric, stepped inside and removed her shoes. Her eyes took a moment to adjust from the brightness outside, the howl of the wind subdued now as she slowly wandered into the blissful retreat. Rugs were thickly scattered on the floor and were plump and soft beneath her bare feet. They lined the walls of the tent too, making the large area more intimate. The space was broken with low, ornate tables surrounded by thick runs of cushioned fabric, and an entire wall was hung with drapes while the floor was scattered with jewel-coloured cushions of velvet and satin, which were so plump Effie would have loved to sink into them.
It was a mess though!
Sand had been trailed through the abode, and tiny jewelled cups and plates, along with jugs, littered the surfaces.
Effie left her case and set about exploring further, finding the kitchen area, marvelling that even in the middle of the desert the King’s wealth meant she could gulp icy water from the dispenser on the fridge and could run her hand in cool water and splash her face.
She stared at the sumptuous foods in the massive fridges and pantries—if the helicopter didn’t return for a year, they wouldn’t starve! And here, behind the kitchen area, was clearly the staff quarters—small curtained-off areas, which contained simple mattresses and furnishings, but still with all mod cons. Effie realised, awash with relief, that she was actually looking forward to her time in the desert. With King Zakari out from sunrise to sunset, and nothing but a tent, no matter how vast, to take care of, it was going to be a holiday compared to her work in the palace!
Smiling to herself, Effie gathered her tools—first she would sweep out his room and make his bed.
No man, no prince, and certainly no king made their own.
She would change the sheets, then draw him a long bath.
When King Zakari returned from his wandering, he wouldn’t mind a scrap that his regular housekeeper hadn’t been able to come. He’d soon see she could work harder and better than Christobel.
Zakari was growing impatient; he knew that she was here, so why didn’t she just come to him?
Mindful of the gathering wind, he had returned early from the desert and had bathed slowly—appreciative of the luxury his title afforded. That was what the desert did, he reflected, the water coursing down his toned body as he stood up, the rich oils making it bead on his olive skin. It made him appreciate the essentials in life that he usually took for granted.
And sex to Zakari was essential.
He didn’t smoke, or drink, his body was in superb condition and, despite his love of horses and his passion for polo, on unique principle he refused to gamble any of the vast fortune his title afforded him. He would win by more calculated means.
Women were his only weakness.
And a very safe bet they were too, Zakari thought with just a glimmer of discontentment—the cards he held in his royal hand meant he always, without fail, won.
Only one woman hadn’t fallen for his charms.
Princess Kalila Zadar had long been deemed a suitable bride by his father—a woman who had been betrothed to him since she was little more than a child.
And though he far from relished the prospect of marrying, Zakari had realised his people wanted to see their king settled, that at thirty-seven years of age it was time to start producing heirs. Reluctantly he had bowed to pressure, instructing his chief aide, Hassan, to set the wheels for the long-awaited royal wedding in motion and, because he was busy trying to find the missing Stefani diamond he had sent his brother, Sheikh Aarif, to Hadiya to collect his promised bride.
Aarif and Kalila had fallen in love…
Terrified of his wrath, they had tried to deny it, yet Aarif had confessed, stunned at Zakari’s reaction.
Zakari had been overjoyed at the news and had been genuinely pleased to see his brother for once happy, just privately bemused as to why.
Oh, Kalila would have made a perfect king’s wife, but there had not been a flicker of want when finally he had met her, not a flicker of what might have been as she wed his brother. Just genuine joy for his brother’s happiness and the hollow realisation that not once had he ever come close to experiencing those feelings Kalila and Aarif had for each other.
He was a king, Zakari reminded himself.
Kings did not have time for romance.
He did not shave—his strong jaw had several days’ growth. Zakari never shaved when he was on retreat, and, anyway, there was no need to impress Christobel.
His title took care of that.
Soon…He could feel the fire in his groin that made him mortal.
Tonight he could just be a man.
Tomorrow he would return to the desert and carry on being King.
Hearing the chopper, Zakari had picked up a towel and wandered through his desert abode. He had dried his chest as he walked, naked, utterly at ease in his own skin. He had pulled back the drape, he had watched the helicopter land, the temporary sandstorm blurring his vision, but he had seen Christobel’s pale blue suitcase and instantly he had been hard at the prospect of what imminently lay ahead.
Closing the drape, he had then headed back to his opulent sleeping area—a king did not rush out to greet anyone.
She would greet him.
Wandering back, he had considered dressing for about half a second—but why?
It had been a week without release and, now that it was close, suddenly his need was urgent.
His bed was scattered with cushions, and he half sat, half lay on the bed, waiting for her. Christobel would not distract his mind with senseless chatter, or demand a tender reunion—she knew why she was here.
Closing his eyes, he smiled to himself…
Just as she would smile when she walked in and saw him lying there…
Imagining her skilled lips around his length and the sweet release they would quickly bring, he gripped his magnificent member, stroking it to its full impressive length. He could hear the pad of her walking, the swish of drapes as she drew nearer, and he continued to stroke himself slowly, waiting for her soft gasp of approval, knowing that no words would be uttered as Christobel entered …her duties were as urgent as they were apparent…
Effie had thought he was out—the silence, along with Stavroula’s instructions, had indicated he would be in the desert now. As she had walked to his sleeping quarters, her only thought had been the beauty of her surrounds, that here in the desert had been created an abode as stunning in its own right as the palace, but walking into the room she had frozen.
He was beautiful.
It had been her first thought as his raw, naked form had greeted her.
Even the opulent jewel-coloured bed, with its feast of cushions and silks, looked shabby in comparison to his gleaming beauty.
His muscles rippled beneath silky olive skin, his jet hair was wet from bathing. His eyes were closed, his lashes forming shadows that cast down to razored cheekbones as Effie’s own eyes too slowly wandered down.
Wide shouldered, his arms were long yet muscular, his chest smooth, his stomach taut and flat, with an ebony trail that snaked from his umbilicus. One muscular leg was flat on the bed, his knee raised up on the other leg,